There is a place where the sidewalk ends
by thejacinthsong
Summary: She knows what they think of her; she always has. She sees the way Sherlock and John exchange glances, the way Greg stares at her with wide eyes and asks mildly how serious they are. In which Molly is not as oblivious as we are supposed to assume, and is determined to move on and away from the emotional incompetence of Sherlock Holmes. Not that he lets her, in the end.
1. And before the street begins

_There is a place where the sidewalk ends_

_And before the street begins,_

_And there the grass grows soft and white,_

_And there the sun burns crimson bright,_

_And there the moon-bird rests from his flight_

_To cool in the peppermint wind._

_- Shel Silverstein_

* * *

She knows what they think of her; she always has. She sees the way Sherlock and John exchange glances, the way Greg stares at her with wide eyes and asks mildly how serious they are. She smiles with a tight line, annoyed at them all, and tells Greg that she's moved on, _firmly, _glancing at Tom, who has been swept up by Mrs. Hudson and Mary. Greg's raised eyebrows are slightly mocking and disbelieving, so she looks away and takes a sip (gulp) of the champagne, remembering what it felt like to be around Sherlock's circle (she thinks he's learned the word "friend," but it still doesn't fit somehow): subject to pitying gazes and amused smirks. Sometimes she thinks they enjoyed her stammering and foolishness around Sherlock.

Suddenly, she wants to grab Tom and run back to his flat, where none of these people have any monopoly in this life she is building with Tom, because she made _sure _that they never touched it, not even with a whisper of their memories. She wants to barricade the door, and hide under the sheets with him, and the life they are beginning to plan with one another, murmured to each other in the early hours of the morning. But she's promised herself that she would try and fit back into this life Sherlock vaguely added her to years ago, without becoming the small, pathetic girl that he used to turn her into. She isn't sure if she's proving something to herself, or to them, but anyway. John did invite her.

"How's the wife?" She asks Greg sharply, instead of running, babbling or blushing. She says it superfluously and innocently, with a smile that he won't question (because why would he, she's little, mousy Molly Hooper), but she doesn't miss the slight discomfort in Greg's eyes.

"Yeah, good. We're, uh, working things out, taking it slowly. Seeing a marriage counsellor again, so it's good. It's all good." He chugs down the remainder of his champagne, and she smiles and moves past him to take a seat close to the couch, where Tom, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson are gushing over wedding details.

"May's a great month - beautiful time to get married. Molly here wants a fall wedding, if you can believe it!" Tom smiles gently at her with a small shake to his head, slightly passive aggressive in his movements.

"Fall? I don't think so love. Not a very cheery time to say your vows!" Mrs. Hudson chides, offering her biscuits. "You don't want any of that bad karma, do you?"

"I like it!" Molly protests, blushing furiously and cramming a biscuit into her mouth to give her silence an excuse, while Mrs. Hudson and Tom roll their eyes at her, conspiring. _It's my wedding too, _she thinks silently at Tom, bitterly reminded of their fight five days ago.

"I think it's a wonderful idea." Mary tells her warmly with, offering her glass to cheer. Molly clinks their glasses together with a nod and shy smile. She likes Mary - she doesn't know her very well, she didn't see John very much after Sherlock's Fall. With Sherlock's rebirth, Molly is only just starting to relearn what has changed in everyone else's lives.

When Sherlock and John return from talking to the press, they seem more at ease with each other. The distrusting glares that she had seen John continually throw his friend - not quite trusting his permanence -aren't as intense or angry. The tension in his shoulders has relaxed, and John even clasps Sherlock's arm when he tells a joke about an old case.

There are multiple toasts and loud, rowdy cheers. Molly keeps quiet, because she still isn't sure how much she should reveal about her part in his death. Sherlock is strangely silent as well, sitting in his armchair, and observing them with a small smile on his face. He nods along with the general conversation, tilting his head to look at everyone better. She stubbornly doesn't give in to the flush burning her neck as she feels his gaze boring into her, grabbing Tom's hand and busying herself with smiling at her fiancé instead.

* * *

"So what'd you think?" Molly asks Tom, as he unlocks his door, hours later. He yawns and smiles, blissfully unaware of the amount of pain that she and the rest of Sherlock's circle have swept underneath the carpet for the benefit of celebration. He shrugs lazily, pulling her through the door and into his arms, nuzzling her gently as if to distract her.

"I like them." He tells her sincerely, _sweetly, _kissing her nose. "Mrs. Hudson and Mary are really welcoming - they have a lot of good ideas about weddings, which might be helpful, seeing as we're both a bit useless with that stuff. John and Greg are great - we might go see a football match sometime, or for a pint." He shrugs again, as if finishing a list, and doesn't mention Sherlock. Molly doesn't push, and changes the subject.

"I'm not useless, I just don't know how to plan something like this! I was raised by boys - weddings were never a part of my upbringing!" Tom rolls his eyes and lets her go, taking her coat and his to hang up. He straightens his bright red jumper and kisses her slowly, ending the conversation, and pushes her into his bedroom eagerly.

His touches now seem wrong, somehow, and when her eyes close, his face and hands morph into someone else's.

(The most despicable thing about that is the fact that she enjoys it more than usual)

* * *

"Where should we live, after we're married? We _still_ haven't decided." Tom reminds her afterwards, when they've showered and are curled up watching a football match. She still doesn't really get the typically British obsession with it, despite a childhood with males, but he likes it, and she isn't too interested in focusing intensely on anything at the moment, still shaken with the very real presence of Sherlock, suddenly hanging over her (and _them), _in a way that she had so far managed to smother.

"Here, I think. It's much nicer than mine, and I like your flat better." She tells him, balancing her computer on her lap. "I can see starting a life with you here, not so much at mine." She doesn't tell him that there is still too much of her old self at her flat, the one who spent nights thinking up dreams where Sherlock would finally see her as something other than a mousy, lovesick pathologist. She keeps it hidden, as she has done for two years, that that was where Sherlock had spent two full months before setting off, taking up every inch of her small, unassuming flat, with his reckless mind and body.

"We could get another dog." He suggests idly, flipping through channels. "You work a lot, and I'm going to be teaching middle school starting next year, and Holden will be lonely. He'll need some company." Molly glances down at the sleeping collie, who half-heartedly wags his tail when he catches her eyes.

"Yeah, maybe." She says softly, thinking about Toby.


	2. And there the grass grows soft and white

She is at Bart's for five days before Sherlock makes an appearance. She had been on guard for those five long days, painfully aware of the changed expectations, and the frowning eyes on her now. She knows that he has suddenly been "approved" for certain experiments, but she hasn't forgotten the humiliation that had nearly cost her her career when Sherlock had been disgraced. With his return, Harold had even insisted on a department meeting to remind "_certain members of staff," _that "_even though"_ Sherlock Holmes had been vindicated, he was still not to be allowed full reign to the morgue "_without any thought to procedure". _Harold had not needed to punctuate his speech with glares at Molly to let everyone know who he was really talking about, but he did so anyway. She took the abuse wordlessly, and left the meeting as soon as she was able to.

When she has finally begun to relax, thinking that maybe Sherlock understood that he was now restricted at Bart's, he of course came sweeping in without warning, alone and unleashed. She is filling out the perpetual backlog of paperwork that she has, when he almost breaks down the door to her office, his eyes blazing. He stares down at her for several long moments, panting softly, where she had instinctively frozen, waiting for his usual order. It's funny how quickly things get back to normal, she thinks vaguely, tiredly, as his jaw clenches noticeably.

"Molly." He bites out, his eyes sweeping over her, lingering on the photo she has of her and Tom (she has to fight the urge to hide the photo from him - hide it so he won't see the flaws). She waves slightly with a sheepish grin.

"Uh, hi, Sherlock. Case? Already?" Sherlock sniffs imperiously, abruptly shaking his head.

"No. Lestrade has failed to bring anything noteworthy to my attention, despite my two year absence."

"You couldn't look over any cold cases from the last two years?" His eyebrow lifts. "Or not." She amends hastily.

"I need to borrow a liver."

"A liver." She sighs, rubbing her eyes as her heart sinks. She's been here all night, and she should have finished an hour ago, but Harold called in sick last minute (code for hungover), and no one else could cover. "Do you have any idea how much trouble I got into after you "died"?" She asks him directly, something she has been bursting to confront him with since his "death."

"Of course." Sherlock tells her dismissively. "I was living with you when you underwent the disciplinary review. Obviously Mycroft ensured that your job remained safe, and that the 'trouble,' as you refer to, was merely a slap on the wrist." He straightens his jacket irritably, his eyes flicking again around her office, and avoiding hers.

"It was an utter embarrassment." She tells him flatly.

"There is little point in obsessing over a couple of difficult days at work. I really need this liver. Please." He cracks a smile and tilts his head, and she feels her heart sinking. The entire solving cases with him and thank you that he had been so intent on giving her has been forgotten, in favour of anything he can do to satiate his boredom. What did she ever think would be possible with this man?

"No. Go away. I need to work." She turns back to the form in front of her, her nerves fizzing with anger. She has barely slept in the last twenty four hours, and because of Sherlock Holmes, she was still subject to a piteous distaste from her colleagues that had yet to lessen. _She's engaged now, she's moved on, _she reminds herself. She cannot allow herself to be pulled back in by fake charm. His shadow looms over her for maybe a full minute that feels a lot longer, but it disappears without another word. She waits another couple of minutes to start breathing again, feeling dizzy and elated and proud of herself. _This is how is has to be between us now, _she tells herself firmly, and gets back down to work.

* * *

Over the next three months, Sherlock Holmes is noticeably absent from her life. Mary Morstan is the closest she gets to his circle. The nurse had taken it upon herself to get to know Molly, and she had invited her multiple times out to lunch or tea or a drink down at the Fox. Molly is nervous, and suspicious at first, but Mary is so genuinely kind and warm, that Molly can't help but like her. She doesn't talk about Sherlock or his cases or habits, and Molly doesn't bring him up. Sometimes it feels like Mary is pushing her to blurt something out about him, but she doesn't fall for it. Molly spent two years forcing herself to get over herself, alone and terrified that Mycroft would appear on her door step with an actual death certificate, and she isn't about to revert back to her childish behaviour because the Great Sherlock Holmes believes that nothing, in the end, has changed.

Instead, Mary expands on the goings on of the practice she shares with John, and some of the ridiculous people she has to deal with. She's interested in Molly's work, and doesn't get shy or sick with the most basic day to day operations in the morgue. If anything, Mary seems to genuinely want to get to know her, and Molly slowly feels herself opening up to the future Mary Morstan-Watson.

All the while, she continues to build her wedding plans with Tom. She doesn't really want anything huge, but he is so traditional, and insistent, and _excited, _that it leaves her control very quickly. The small, autumn wedding with a simple afternoon reception that she had tentatively imagined, becomes a summer wedding with his entire (and remarkably large) group of family and friends, with her list of invites barely reaching twenty five. He wants classic white embroided with red and roses, different samples of shades of cream and alabaster and egg littering her flat.

_("It's a theme Molly," He almost snaps, after the third hour of their planning._

_"What kind of theme is red?" She responds heatedly, her hands on her hips. _

_"LOVE. Love is the theme!" He waves his hands and storms into the bedroom, and she pulls on her hair in exasperation)_

And despite her desperate attempts to try and understand the gesture of a wedding that is so vital to him, he is constantly irritated with how slow she is.

_("I just don't want a big wedding! I'm not big on large romantic gestures!" His eyes bulge out comically._

_"Gesture? It's our wedding, Mols. It's the day we swear to stand by each other for the rest of our lives. Of course it has to be big - it has to matter."_

_"Why does big equal important?")_

But a wedding is supposed to be challenging, she tells herself, albeit uncertainly. Meena's was just as big as theirs is turning out to be - but she had hated that one. Her brothers' weddings had been obnoxiously large and loud, but she was certain that had more to due with their personalities more than anything else.

_("You're being silly, Mols." Meena tells her dismissively, her large ring flashing in the sun, heavy with her second child. "It's the most important day of your entire life - indulge!"_

_"I dunno, Mols - it's a wedding, isn't it supposed to be your area? You being a girl and all." Joseph tells her impatiently, wanting to get back to describing his newest victory at work._

_"Oh, little Mary, quite contrary, stop being silly." Adam mocks on her computer screen, checking his phone as he does._

_She fumes.)_

It's after a spectacular fight with Tom that she finally sets eyes on Sherlock again. She's working her way through paperwork that wasn't done properly by the interns that sent down the last three bodies; she has barely slept for three days, her eyes are bloodshot, she forgot to undergo the effort of makeup, and her hair is inexplicable. She is running on coffee and a granola bar, and the caffeine is making her hands shake. She's been so close to tears for the last three hours, when Harold reamed her out in the cafeteria because of the difficulty he was having dealing with Greg and Sherlock.

_("The bastard is unbelievable - why on earth did you ever let him think that he was welcome in the bloody morgue?" He shrieks at her, while the paediatric nurses giggle at her from the next table. She stammers and tries to form a coherent reply, but everyone is staring, so she just lets him yell and yell.)_

She is about to collapse, her vision is even growing shaky and blurry, when a large cup of coffee is placed next to her; not even the swill the hospital has, but proper, legitimate coffee. She glances up in surprise, and jumps when it is Sherlock looming over her, his face blank and intent. He nods to the coffee.

"Three quarters black with a quarter low-fat milk. As pointless as it is to cut down calories with milk." He tells her loftily, moving around the table to his usual microscope. She just stares at him, as he makes himself at home.

"Sherlock - hi. Uh, thank you for the coffee. What -"

"I have permission, do stop worrying. I'm working on a case with Lestrade. The new pathologist is less than incompetent and an utter drunkard. I have more use for Anderson than I will ever have for him. When and _why _on earth was he allowed to set foot in here?"

"He was hired not long after your - well, 'death.' He isn't fond of you, I guess to put it mildly."

"I inferred." Sherlock tells her drily. She doesn't have the time or patience to deal with his instinctive dislike of everyone today(even though in this case, she really does get it), so she clenches her fists and takes a breath.

"Right." She says shortly. "Can I help you?"

"You could. I don't need you to."

"Of course." She says tiredly, burying herself gratefully into the coffee he suspiciously brought her. She really doesn't care enough to question motives at the moment, even if he has drugged it to test a theory (though she does take a surreptitious sniff). It's actual, drinkable coffee from a proper, posh café, and at the moment she would give him every body in the morgue if he asked (which she is sure he is aware of). She doesn't push for conversation, when it becomes clear that he isn't interested in it either, and continues on with the incorrectly filled paperwork that she is sick of having to fix.

"You ought to report that intern." He says roughly a half hour later. Molly looks up in surprise.

"Sorry?"

"The intern whose mistakes you are correcting. Such blatant and continuous errors have no place in a hospital with the reputation that Bart's has, and you are most likely condemning some poor soul at his untalented hands." He doesn't glance at her once, still methodically making slides barely glancing at them through the microscope.

"He's an intern, Sherlock. He's supposed to make mistakes, and learn from them. They wouldn't get anywhere near to becoming a licensed attending if we drum them out at every mistake." He slowly lifts his head and peers at her curiously.

"Why are you justifying incompetence?" She rolls her eyes exasperatedly.

"Everyone is incompetent to you."

"Untrue. Lestrade is not wholly useless, John is competent, and of course you are quite adequate."

"Then your definition of competence rests solely on whether or not a person will work with you and bend the rules so that you get what you want." She ignores the glare she can feel burning into her - she is far too tired and upset to fight with another person.

"You are upset." He states evenly.

"No, you're just difficult."

"You aren't wearing your engagement ring, and it isn't around your neck, so you most likely left it at home implying that you would rather not be reminded of it at the present moment. Your fatigue is blatantly obvious - as is the number of coffees you have ingested in the last eight hours. You look to be on the brink of tears, and you keep glancing at your mobile. You've been fighting with Tom, and you are waiting to see if he will call. Marital troubles?"

"We aren't married yet." She reminds him evasively.

"You're fighting over planning the wedding, then?" Molly's head snaps up and her mouth falls open.

"How could you possibly know that?" Sherlock shrugs.

"John told me." Molly makes a noise of outrage and shock that she can't quite classify, but Sherlock doesn't look any less bored. "Not everything is deducible. Mary obviously gives in to her fiancé's relentless questioning over your wellbeing, and he is further unremitting in attempting to guilt me. He believes that I am avoiding you, and that I have upset you."

"You haven't done anything and I'm not upset with you." She tells him quietly. "We haven't seen each for ages; when did you have the time to upset me?" Sherlock's eyes flicker for a moment, but then it smoothes over, as always.

"John believes that my demanding to body parts was crossing a line."

"You've been doing that for years; before you even met John. I always let you get away with it before, why is it now crossing a line?" Sherlock smiles slightly at her.

"He is trying to make up for the guilt he feels for retreating and ignoring you after my supposed death."

"I barely saw John except for when you brought him down here - why on earth would I expect him to confide in _me, _of all people?" Molly snaps. Sherlock's eyebrows disappear into his curls, and she deflates immediately. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't meant that. Sorry."

"Your fiancé is traditional. You are not." Molly eyes him wearily, her stomach clenching. "He doesn't approve of your choice in an engagement ring: his smile was very clearly forced when John pretended to admire it. He wanted something bigger and flashier: more of a statement that you were somehow his property. You are a woman in her thirties who was raised by men after the death of your mother. Your lack of comfort with your femininity such as clothing, make up and men is obvious. Your father and brothers encouraged intellect, not looks or relationships, which likely contributed to your ambition and advanced stage of career despite your relatively young age. Most likely he wants a large, traditional wedding, something that makes you uncomfortable, but your infuriating need to please everyone is allowing him to largely control the decisions made." He doesn't take a breath throughout the speech, and seems almost angry. _Great,_ Molly thinks bitterly, _another overprotective male in my life._

"That isn't the only reason." She blurts. He narrows his eyes.

"Your father." She shrugs. "It is useless to mourn the dead; they're gone. There is very little point in allowing their memory corrupt your life."

"He was at Joe's and Adam's weddings." She says quietly. "It doesn't seem right to have such a big celebration without him."

"He has been dead for years, Molly. I am quite certain he wouldn't want you to hold onto his ghost." She doesn't answer, but she knows perfectly well that he is waiting for her to justify his deductions. She finally gives in and throws up her hands, still unable to cope well with his staring.

"Fine. Tom wants a giant wedding. Frilly and white with red roses and a church and hundreds of people. It's driving him crazy that I have different tastes, and want something smaller. Bit of a bridezilla really." He looks quizzical, but she shakes her head, waving the reference away. "I just want him to be happy. It's important to him. That's what relationships are after all, right? Compromise, sacrifice? A big wedding will make him happy; it isn't going to hurt me if I go along." She doesn't understand why exactly she is asking Sherlock for advise on the subject of _relationships _and _weddings, _but he is the first person who doesn't immediately dismiss her frustration with Tom.

"I have been told that weddings are supposed to be about both parties in the relationship." Sherlock informs her quietly, tracing his fingers along the table.

"It is. It's about me making him happy about something that is more important to him than me."

"The wedding isn't important?" Her cheeks flood with heat; he's smirking, he thinks he's caught her making a mistake. She stops her eyes from flitting around and forces herself to meet his gaze, and the eyebrow inching upwards.

"The marriage is important." She tells him _firmly_. "Spending the rest of our lives together count. Not a day in a dress." Sherlock nods once, before turning to dump his slides in the sink behind him, and stalking out of the room. Molly rolls her eyes, and drinks her coffee.


	3. And there the sun burns crimson bright

John and Mary throw their engagement party a month later, and both Molly and Tom attend. She wears a pale pink dress, a simple, cheerful one that she bought for Tom and her's six month anniversary. The party is at John and Mary's spacious flat (not too far from 221B, which Molly thinks was intentional), and they arrive on time, welcomed warmly by the happy couple.

There are people to meet: friends and co-workers that she doesn't know, John's sister, who is drawn and distant, eyes everyone with a cool, slightly unsteady anger. Molly smiles and shakes her limp hand anyway, before letting Mary sweep Tom and her away to meet the other physicians in their surgery. Tom gets caught up talking to Greg about football after they greet each other, and Molly finds herself out on the balcony, alone, appreciating the bright spring day. Even with her cardigan, it is slightly cool, but she was slightly unnerved with Tom's pointed looks, while Mary and John gushed about the day firmly set for their wedding.

A heavy jacket is placed gently around her shoulders, and she turns in surprise to see Sherlock standing beside her, ignoring her, and staring at the view. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply.

"Are you supposed to be smoking?" She asks quietly instead of a greeting, unaware of holding his jacket closer to her skin. It's warm and smells like him, and the day is cool and she's uncomfortable, and so she allows herself this weakness. Sherlock glances at her, irritated.

"I was unaware that I am not allowed to make my own decisions." She chuckles at that, enjoying his childish look and the setting sun, framing his face with sunlight. _He burns quite brightly, _she muses to herself, ignoring a tight pull to her chest that feels like longing.

"I have heard the exasperating tale of the unending journey to get Sherlock Holmes to stop smoking. It's a favourite of mine." She grins, remembering John's expressive face and gestures from years ago, muttering threateningly about his obsessive roommate. Sherlock snorts.

"John is entirely dramatic; I'm not that bad."

"Of course you're not." She says with a smile.

"Don't patronise me." He snips at her, drawing in another breath of smoke almost pointedly, like a child stamping his foot. Molly calmly grabs the cigarette and crushes it against the railing, before tossing it over the edge. Sherlock looks almost forlorn, looking down after the fallen cigarette, and eyeing her reproachfully.

"That was my last one." He pouts, oddly and uncharacteristically expressive. She laughs again.

"Then you can enjoy the fresh air instead. Much better for your lungs." He rolls his eyes.

"_Ugh_. Fresh air is dreadfully boring." His eyes are alight and warm as he looks at her, a small smile quirking at the corner of his lips. "You look like yourself." She glances down at her dress, smoothing any wrinkles she is most likely imagining are there.

"That sounded like an attempt at a compliment, so thank you. I think."

"When you came to John's Christmas party, you dressed up in a way that didn't fit you, and it very clearly showed. This outfit… is not an attempt. It suits you." She flushes hard at his appraisal, cursing herself for doing so. He is no longer smiling, but there is something fierce about his green-blue eyes, and the air is suddenly thick with a familiar tension she forcibly reminds herself that she is once again fabricating.

"Still compensating for the size of my breasts and mouth though?" She says drily, trying to change the subject to something lighter (on reflection not the best choice). To her surprise, Sherlock looks almost… embarrassed? Ashamed? _No, not ashamed,_ she thinks, as he hurriedly looks away. _Too strong._

"It was not a criticism." He said quietly. "It was an observation. I deduced that you obviously felt the need to compensate for what you felt were physical inadequacies. I never said I believed you were correct in your assessment." _Bloody hell, _she thinks, flummoxed again. This Sherlock Holmes, the one post-Fall, is somehow different, in ways that Molly can't quite figure out. She opens her mouth and tries to find something to say, something light hearted to diffuse whatever tension that she is beginning to think might be mutual.

"You said my mouth was too small." She blurts out, cursing herself for even mentioning it. It was so long ago, and it shouldn't mean anything, and she is _engaged, _and it _does not matter. _Sherlock takes a few moments to evaluate her outburst, and in the face of her fear that she's pushed him too far, he gives her a small, self-deprecating smile.

"I perhaps did not express myself correctly. I meant that your mouth _is _small, comparatively speaking, but I never meant to imply that that was somehow a fault." Molly has no idea what to say to him, to say to this apologetic, and more patient man. She doesn't have the change, anyway.

"Molly?" She wheels around, blushing again. Tom is leaning out of the door, looking uneasily between the two of them. Sherlock doesn't even glance back.

"Tom! Hi!" Molly says in a voice that sounds so forcibly cheery that she almost winces. "Sherlock and I were just catching up!"

"I see. Um, John's about to make a toast, if you two want to…"

"Of course!" She hurriedly takes off his jacket, feeling guilty - even though she is absolutely certain that she has done nothing to deserve the irked look in Tom's eyes - and quickly hands it back to Sherlock with a thank you. Neither of them look at each other, and she goes to Tom without another word, as he grasps her hand (tightly enough to make her wince), and pulls her inside.

* * *

She is maybe a little tipsy, sleepily so, on the drive home. She blames Mary, she thinks drowsily - she had kept refilling her glass, sneaking glances between her and Tom and Sherlock, and she kept draining it. As a result, Tom is driving, and she has curled up in the passenger seat, dozing fitfully.

"You never told me that you helped fake Sherlock Holmes' death." Tom says suddenly. He had been quiet with her for the rest of the party, holding on to her with a tight, unmoving grip. Sherlock had disappeared after the speech - at least she didn't see him again, and Tom didn't let her out of his sight. Blearily Molly looks over at him. His hands are clutched tight on the steering wheel, and his jaw is clenched.

"Who told you that?" She asks evasively.

"Greg. And John. And the point is that _you_ never told me that." Molly sighs and rubs her forehead. She had forgotten that she might one day have to have this conversation with him.

"Tom, I couldn't. It was too dangerous. Sherlock had to appear dead to the world. John is his best friend, and he thought that Sherlock was dead. If I couldn't tell him, I couldn't very well tell you. I made a promise." Tom doesn't look in any way appeased, she notes nervously.

"I'm your fiancé."

"Tom."

"We're going to be married. We are not supposed to have secrets."

"This is slightly different!" Molly protests, her lovely fatigue melting from her bones. "This was to protect people from homicidal maniacs who would have killed Greg, John, and Mrs. Hudson if they knew he was alive!"

"Who all seem to think you are actually in love with him, and that I'm merely a replacement." He snarls. Molly falls back, chagrinned. "Well?" He asks, his voice cracking.

"That isn't fair. Or true." She tells him quietly.

"Did you ever love him?"

"I had a silly crush on him. He never felt the same way; obviously. Sherlock left, I met you. That's it. That's all there is."

"And yet you protected him for two years. Those evenings you moped around your flat, refusing to spend time with me, telling me that you were just mourning the death of your father. That wasn't it though, was it? You were just thinking of him."

"Oh shut up." Molly snaps, fury and mortification flaring through her. "You have no idea what I went through. I spent two years out of my mind with worry, not knowing if he was dead, dying or injured, unable to talk to _anyone _about it. You didn't go to his funeral, you didn't _have_ to go, pretending to grieve for a man who you had helped kill, and watch his best friends cry and fall apart because they thought he was dead. You have no idea what I've gone through because of that bloody brilliant man." She cuts herself off, breathing hard. "And it's over now. Sherlock is back, with his circle. Everything is back to the way it was."

"And you two are _friends_."

"No. Maybe. I have no idea. I have seen him three times since we had that celebratory drink welcoming him back to life. In four months, I've seen him three times, one of which was this party. I haven't done anything wrong." She's trembling now, because it's a struggle, it's been a struggle, to try and forget those terrifying two years, now that he's back and vibrant with life.

"Molly - "

"Take me home. I want to be alone."

_"Molly."_

"Please."

And since Tom is nice and sweet and considerate, he takes the next turn, heading towards Molly's flat instead of his. He doesn't push, he just takes her home, because he feels ashamed for _causing her distress _with questions he has every right to ask. She buries the faint wish that he would keep forcing the issue. He is the right man for her. No matter what anyone else thinks, she is not settling. She is making a good, healthy choice for her future. The first one in years.

* * *

He stops in front of her flat, and she tears out of the car without a word, her throat tight with emotion she has relentlessly killed over the last two years. Molly leaves her fiancé stewing in his own fury, knowing that she will most likely hear of this again. But she goes anyway, forcing her way into her flat, slamming the door. The tears come without warning, taking over her without any say on her part. She gives in, and sinks to the floor and just sobs, feeling stretched so tight that she can't _breathe._


	4. And there the moon-bird rests

She doesn't see Tom for three weeks, but she doesn't have the time to panic over their fight, because she is too busy with Sherlock, who is suddenly in her morgue and in her laboratory for most of the hours she works. Harold tells her good riddance, because he is sick _"of that goddamn freak whingeing and nicking body parts." _On the occasion that John shows up, bewildered and confused, he apologises hesitantly and with a nervous smile, eyeing his best friend suspiciously. Molly doesn't fight him because she doesn't have the strength to shove him back anymore, not with Tom not speaking to her. She gives him everything he asks for (except coffee, bizarrely, because he always comes with two fresh cups now), and tries to barricade herself in her office. He doesn't let her, insisting on joining her in the small room to "bounce theories" off of her head, so she quickly gives up the idea that she could ever hide from this man.

He talks now, as well. The usual silence between them is filled with whatever Sherlock is busying himself with, deductions that she thinks are the only ones he ever keeps to himself. When his experiments become so simple that even he runs out of words to describe them, he expounds on the frustrations of having a best friend and partner who is engaged, and refusing ("strangely enough," Sherlock whines, "I'm back - why on earth is he insisting on staying with Mary?") to move back into 221B.

He says please and thank you, offers her coffee and snacks at the correct intervals. He asks her about her work and her life, about Toby and the paper she's working on. He shares the woes of having older brothers, and anecdotes from his _childhood, _of all things, and timidly she begins to reciprocate the information he is so freely giving her. For years, the personal knowledge of Sherlock came from his slip of tongue, and the scraps Greg and John gave her. It's a bizarre feeling to suddenly begin to understand Sherlock Holmes as a human being, rather than a genius Consulting Detective.

At the end of those very long and confusing weeks (that she is trying vainly to pretend don't mean the world to her), as she is shrugging her jacket on, and shoving materials into her bag, Sherlock comes banging into the locker room (the _women's _locker room), just as her phone beeps.

"Molly - just finishing, I see." Molly frowns at him confusedly, blessing any deity listening that he had not come barging in just five minutes earlier. The text is from Tom, she realises with a lead block in her stomach. "I was wondering whether you would like to join me for a case." He shifts in his spot, eyes suspiciously focused just above her eye-line. "John is busy for the evening with Mary - apparently something to do with an "anniversary," and I need a... partner." Molly's phone beeps again.

_Can we talk? I miss you. _

_Molly, when are you free?_

"I - uh..." She trails off, her eyes flicking between Sherlock and her phone. Her answer is quite obvious, even if she is angry at herself for her weakness. "Sure - Sherlock. How can I help?" Her fingers fly over her phone, telling Tom without her permission that she has to work tonight. She puts the phone on silent, and stuffs it in her bag, throwing it over her shoulder and smiling at Sherlock.

"Lead on."

* * *

"Molly?" Greg asks, shocked, when Sherlock and she arrive at the crime scene. The famous Anderson and Donovan are standing right behind him, the sallow man looking sheepish and nervous, the woman defiant. She ducks her head with a shy smile.

"I'm helping out Sherlock tonight." She shrugs half-heartedly, "Tom was busy tonight, and I had just gotten off work." Greg just nods, allowing Sherlock to sweep him away to the body. Sally Donovan stares down at Molly with an amused smirk.

"Aren't you the girl that somehow fancies the Freak? Ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome? You might want to see someone." Anderson flushes and tries to nudge her, but she pulls away, alight with a inexplicable fury. Molly gives her a tight smile.

"I'm a friend. I'm just here to lend a hand." She doesn't allow the woman another word, brushing past her. She's never met either or them, but she has certainly heard enough stories. As much as Molly understands that their role in Sherlock's downfall was technically justified, it doesn't make it any easier to meet them without growing hot with indignance.

Approaching Sherlock, she slows her pace, unsure of how welcome she is. He's already speaking at a rapid fire pace to an unfazed Greg, and a young man desperately trying to copy down notes. "Obviously, Lestrade, I can't even understand where you _find _these people. How on earth could you make the mistake of thinking that this was _accidental?" _

"Well, I just - I thought." The young man stammers, falling silent when Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"That is just the problem, isn't it? Scotland Yard would in fact be much better off if you did away with these pathetic _attempts _at thinking." Molly winces, and elbows Sherlock sharply. He cuts himself off, his lips twisting with bewilderment, and stares down at her, his eyebrows disappearing into his curls. She shakes her head. "Not good?" He asks, somehow unaware of how cutting he can be.

"Not good." Molly confirms.

"Peter, why don't you go see if the uh, tape is up properly?" Greg suggests, wincing at his words. Peter nods anyway, and runs off. "Sherlock, for fuck's sake - could you at least _try _not to drive my men and women to quitting or, I don't know _suicide?" _Sherlock sniffs.

"The murderer was obviously his eldest son. This was barely worth my time. Come along, Molly." Molly shrugs apologetically at Greg's mounting fury, but chases after Sherlock's unfairly long legs as he flags down a cab.

"221B Baker Street. Please." He adds hastily, catching Molly's eye. He doesn't say another word throughout the drive, intent entirely on his phone. Molly knows she should open hers and call or text Tom, but she _really _doesn't want to. She is sick of fighting with him. So she leaves Sherlock to his texting, and watches London pass her by, reminding her why she insisted on moving here, despite her brothers' protests. She had loved their small, sweet hometown, but she was in love with brutal and fast-paced London.

The cabbie pulls up in front of 221B all too soon (she was rather enjoying the peaceful, companionable silence). Sherlock thrusts a few bills at the man, and moves to get out. Just as she opens her mouth to call her goodbyes, he turns back to her with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Don't be ridiculous Molly, you're coming in as well." Shooting her one of his patented _'wasn't-that-obvious?' _looks, he sweeps out of the car. Confused, she jumps out and follows him. Mrs. Hudson's door is firmly closed, and Sherlock doesn't bother to stop and knock. Instead, she follows him up the stairs, and into his flat. The only thing that really ever changes, when she's been here, is the level of organisation. It wasn't _dirty, _per se, just messy. She is moving on autopilot, her eyes taking in the warmly lit room, when she feels Sherlock tugging at her jacket. She shrugs out of it, perplexed _again _by his behaviour.

"Tea?" Sherlock asks, pushing her gently towards the couch, before heading to the kitchen. Molly nods, stifling the ever familiar urge to gape at the offer.

"Yes, please." In the two months he had stayed with her, he would occasionally lend a hand with providing food or drinks, and he had spent the last three weeks supplying her caffeine fix almost daily. It was still bizarre. After so long of automatically fetching him tea or coffee, to sit and _watch _him was somewhat confusing and difficult to adjust to.

When he returns, his entire form ridged and stilted, she accepts the mug with some semblance of grace - managing not to spill it on herself (something she shouldn't be so proud of herself for). "A splash of milk, no sugar." Sherlock informs her, like always, somehow managing to look haughty at the fact that he knows how she takes her tea. Molly smiles gratefully and thanks him, as he takes his chair across from her. He steeples his hands under his chin, narrowing his ever-observing eyes at her.

"Do you need help with something else, Sherlock?" She finally asks, after burning her tongue with the boiling tea (she knew it was too hot, she was just nervous). Molly understands that endless silences never register as awkward or uncomfortable to Sherlock, particularly when he is deducing someone. She, however, _does _feel the effects, fidgeting and blushing more and more, as he stares her down.

Sherlock shakes his head curtly. "No. I invited you here for a..._ chat. _That is, I believe, what _normal _friends do." He spits the word 'normal' out like it kills him to have it in his vocabulary, and Molly's heart aches slightly. He is trying to make their past up to her, she realises. He has since he returned. It's sweet and strange, like watching a baby animal try and walk for the first time - utterly mystified that there was some sense to the whole process.

"Okay." Molly said, hiding a smile. Sherlock hadn't lost too much of his pride, and she knew he would interpret her amusement as mocking. "What would you like to chat about? Normal things?" She raises an eyebrow. It's baffling how different this atmosphere is, and how much easier to talk when they are working at Bart's, absorbed with their respective projects and not meeting each other's eyes.

Sherlock pauses. "How are the wedding preparations going?"

Molly suddenly goes cold and tense, grasping her mug tightly. She tries to make her own observations, looking for an hint of cruelty or amusement in his eyes. She knows that _physically _Tom and Sherlock look

alike, but that is where the similarities end. But she only sees carefully controlled curiosity, so she relents. Just slightly.

"Good - we've narrowed the date down to next July, and we almost have the invitation list sorted. Tom has a lot more people to invite, so it's becoming, um, rather big!" She flushes and Sherlock nods, and the cursed babbling of her past strikes her. "Tom wants to hire a proper wedding planner for the actual arrangements - but we have decided on a white and red theme, as you know, white table cloths with red napkins. White curtains with red roses. That kind of thing! He's even joking about getting a red tuxedo to go with my wedding dress, but that _is _a joke, or at least I _think _it is, actually, I should probably check, shouldn't I? My brothers between the two of them have three kids, so the boys will be ushers and the girl a flower girl." His face is complete stone, and it isn't moving or reacting to anything she's saying, and she's coming close to freaking out. "He's got a ton of buddies from uni as his best men, and well, I know a couple of girls, though I haven't seen them in a while. Meena is going to be my maid of honour - she's really excited. And Tom is ecstatic, he wants Holden - that's his dog, to stand up at the aisle with us, he suggested Toby, but that would be a _disaster _I think, _really - "_

She's talking to her mug all of this time, and suddenly Sherlock pounces on her, launching himself from his armchair, grabbing her face in her hands, and pressing his mouth to hers so aggressively it's barely a kiss. She gasps and drops her mug, but he merely takes the opportunity to thrust his tongue into her mouth. When her brain finally catches up to her - to the desperation in the way he clutches her, and the intent of the kiss, she pushes at him, weakly, until the tears spring up and she shoves him hard enough that he goes crashing over the coffee table. He's lying there, his face still marble, but his eyes are aflame with something burning and intense and something _so terrifying, _that she bolts.

She runs out of 221B, because this is _ridiculous, _and she gave up on him _years _ago, when he identified that woman by not-her-face, just after he had ripped her dignity and self-esteem to shreds hours before. As she flags down a cab and yells an address at the poor cabbie, her mind scrambles to logically explain his behaviour, which she has been doing ever since he realised that complimenting her hair would get him whatever he wanted. _He's scared, _she rationalises, as they speed through London. _John is getting married, Greg is working things out with his wife, even Mrs. Hudson has found a boyfriend! He was alone for too long, and he comes back and every has moved on. This is sabotage. Nothing else. _She repeats this to herself until the cabbie pulls up in front of the flat, which she realises too late is actually _Tom's _flat.

She pays him anyway, and gets out, because she feels so horribly guilty, even though she didn't really _do _anything. But her lips are stinging, and feel slightly swollen even, and her eyes are wet. She takes a few moments, pulling out her phone, where there are thirty-seven missed calls and texts. She doesn't know if it's relief or disappointment that every single one is from Tom and not Sherlock, and she hates herself for whatever she's feeling.

"Molly?" She looks up to see Tom leaning out of his window, frowning at her. She waves, barely holding back tears. "I'll be right down."

She starts breathing in and out, deeply, terrified that he'll look at her and guess. She rubs at her eyes, sore and irritated, until she feels Tom's arms (thin, too thin now) clasp around her, shushing her and rocking her against him. But it's wrong, it's all wrong, and this is entirely her fault, and so she breaks down. And when Tom pulls her into the apartment, trying to kiss her better and remove her clothes, she stops him because it feels dirty.

And when she has finally some grasp of control, she tells him that she had a patient in her morgue that was an innocent child, whose heart she'd had to carve out. And he goes green and nods hastily, silencing her with a cup of tea that is too sweet and milky for her liking.


	5. To cool in the peppermint wind

Molly takes three days off work. She locks herself in her flat, tells her friends and Tom that she is going to visit her brothers, packs a bag, and just drives. She detours through her hometown (close enough to Joe and Adam's houses that it could possibly be a truth), but then she keeps going, all the way to the beach their father used to take them once a year during the summer holidays. She rents the cabin that they used to share, curls up in soft clothing with a warm blanket, and devours the books she's been meaning to read for years. She has spent so many years now occupied with that damned man, that so much was put on the back burner, because his presence and demands exhausted her so much that she never had the time.

She lounges in bed and sleeps, pretending that she has no responsibilities, and no important life decisions waiting for her back home. She lives on tea and toast, because lately she feels so sick that she can't stomach anything heavier. She is almost wistfully remembering the days where Sherlock ignored her and manipulated her, and she barely dated. She always thought that she needed a man in her life; a partner to anchor her and make her happy, but she forgot that she has spent so much time alone, that making room for another person is so incredibly difficult.

On her second day, she hangs around the beach. It's still far too cold for any kind of swimming, so she is blissfully alone, to sit in the sand and read and think; to wander by the shoreline, remembering all the years she came here with her father. Her wonderful, kind father, who never begrudged her the fact that it was her birth that killed her mother, like some of her relatives. Her strong, selfless father, who loved her and advised her, always steering her in the right direction. The man who was there for her without judgment when she ran in the wrong direction anyway. It's been years, but it's rare that a day passes without her floating through a memory of him. He'd know what to do - he would have been here to help her.

When she finally returns to the cabin, it's getting dark quickly. She's windswept, smelling like seaweed, and covered in sand, but she feels calmer and more centered. She unlocks the door and moves through the small, lovely little cabin that she hasn't been to in years, when she catches a shadow out of her peripherals. She wheels around (never let it be said that Jim Moriarty left no mark on her soul), to face the very man she ran away from, sitting calmly in the sofa, his hands folded neatly on his lap. She freezes, preparing to run again if he tries to kiss her (it isn't the most adult thing to do, but she always loses herself when she's with Sherlock Holmes).

"Molly." He finally says, as if sure that she isn't going to run. Molly clasps her hands, wringing her hands.

"Hi." She says in a very small voice. "How did you find me?" He looks as if he's really trying not to roll his eyes, and the fact that he doesn't scares her. He holds up her phone.

"GPS tracking." She splutters at that.

"You _tracked _my phone?"

He isn't moved. "I first put a tracking device in your phone when I spent two months with you. I was worried that Moriarty's disciples might discover me. I did not want to put you in any danger." Molly frowns.

"I got a new phone a year ago." Sherlock shrugs.

"You have met Mycroft." He stares at her for another moment, and then rises. She takes a step back, and his eyes soften in ways she had never thought possible. "Molly, I am here to apologise. And perhaps explain myself." He seems to be waiting for her acquiescence, because he doesn't say another word. Haltingly she nods.

"O-okay." With his eyes refusing to leave her, as if he's forcing himself to keep the gaze, he begins.

"Since I returned, I have struggled with the idea of having this conversation with you. I finally sought advice from John and Mary. I would recommend to anyone to never ask these types of questions to a happy couple. The smugness is unbearable."

"Sherlock." She reminds him, her heart beating unnaturally loudly.

"Right, of course." He nods, nervously. "In short, I do not wish for you to marry Tom." She starts and sighs.

"Sherlock, I will still be there at the morgue, I'm not planning to leave Bart's, I can still help you - "

"Molly." He says, a little more sharply. "Please let me get through this." He takes a deep breath. "I do not want you to marry Tom, not because I need your very capable assistance in the morgue, but because I do not want you to be with another man." He shifts in the spot, although he never looks away. "I would instead prefer that you enter a monogamous... _relationship_, with me."

"_What?" _Molly demands, flooding with anger and confusion. "You can't possibly - but, _Sherlock, _you've spent years ignoring any interest I showed you! You never expressed _any _interest in me - and now, what, you want me? For what, until you get bored? Or something more engaging comes along?" To her deepest embarrassment, tears start welling up again. _Hasn't she wept enough, _she despairs.

"I always wanted. I just never understood the feeling. I never understood how to connect the ideas. And it scared me." He swallows hard. "I didn't know what it was. I didn't like not knowing. And you never judged me, never labeled me. I thought that there had to be something hiding in you, something that would one day snap, and do to me..."

"What you did to me." Molly finishes, trembling. Sherlock nods quickly, his lips tightly pursed. "Then all my dates that you chased away?" Sherlock glowers deeply.

"I did not think they were worth your time. I told myself that I was being kind; saving you the trouble. But then Tom came along, and it was serious, and the only fault I could find in him was that he was dull. And then it dawned on me why I did not like seeing you with him. Admittedly, despite my vastly superior intellect, my level of emotional intelligence is left wanting."

"You think?" Molly asks, her voice breaking tremulously. Overwhelmed, and suddenly aware of how far away they were from real life, she closed her eyes and held her hands to her temples, a thousand voices and impulses screaming at her- each pulling at her relentlessly.

Sherlock's deep voice doesn't sound calm anymore, it's as shaky as she feels. "I understand that what I am asking... I... I am not expecting an immediate reaction. I only ask that you reflect on what I have said, and perhaps think on whether we can start over... but, _together." _He is the one stammering now, it occurs to her, slightly hysterically.

"I need you to leave, Sherlock," She finally manages to say. She hugs herself, forcing herself to say the words again, trying to inject some conviction into her voice. Sherlock nods again, and breaks eye contact, leaving quietly. She doesn't stop him, doesn't offer him a spare bed. She can't trust either of them, and she needs the tranquility that she had so briefly found. She needs to think, to _breathe._

She crawls into bed some time later, after coming back to herself, and realising that she was still staring at the doorway Sherlock left through. Wishing she had Toby to cuddle, she huddles to herself, as it starts raining heavily.

* * *

The next day, she drags her feet, stalling and avoiding the reality that she has to go back to London, and she has to address Tom's cutesy little texts that he kept sending her, full of emoticons and kisses and hugs. On some level, his freedom with his affection and emotion still floods her with warmth. She can imagine an easy life with Tom. A small house with kids and pets, anniversaries and movie nights, and dates that didn't fall through. It's what everyone around her has; what everyone has told her for years she _needs_ to be happy and fulfilled. Part of her still wants that. She isn't faking any feelings she has for Tom - she does love him. She _does. _

When she finally arrives back in London, she heads for Tom's, her heart bursting in her chest, her stomach queasy and unsettled. She doesn't have an answer. She doesn't know what she's going to say. She walks up to Tom's flat, and knocks. He opens it excitedly, trying to keep a barking Holden from leaping joyfully at her. He pulls her into a fierce hug and a deep kiss, leading her to the dining room, where a homemade dinner is set up, just to greet her. He's chattering gleefully as he sits her down, Holden still flocking at her calves.

She looks up at him, truly looks at him, and finds her voice.


	6. The place where the sidewalk ends

It's one in the morning - no decent time for normal people to be awake, but she is furious, and it doesn't occur to her that perhaps it could wait. Because this can't. It can't wait, and damn anyone who dares to think or tell her otherwise. The door is unlocked (suspicious), and she goes pounding up the stairs, and throws open the door with a crash, loud enough that she thinks she hears Mrs. Hudson yelp from downstairs. Sherlock looks surprised to see her, standing by the fireplace, a mournful tune cuts short as his hands still.

She knows she's flushed and breathless with anger, and that she most likely looks fairly ridiculous. She takes Sherlock's wide eyed surprise and clenched fists on his violin, however, as some sort of victory. There is a mean little part of her that is glad that he looks worried. She keeps her left hand hidden underneath her sleeve, even though she sees him look down there, two, three times. She points her right hand at him accusingly.

"So help me, Sherlock Holmes, if this is one of your manipulations, if you are only doing this because you're scared that everything is changing, if in a month you decide I'm too distracting or not interesting enough. If you cheat on me or ignore me, or leave me out of important parts of your life, then _so help me Sherlock Holmes." _She cuts off breathing heavily, watching how Sherlock has dropped his hands, his violin that John once told her is most likely priceless, grazing the fire grate. His eyes are so wide and vulnerable, that she maybe, starts to believe him.

"Yes?" He asks, his voice so like the night he asked her to kill him.

"Then I will do something nasty. And I'll never let you in the morgue again. And, something else that's mean." She flashes her left hand at him, bare of any ring, and he drops the priceless instrument and flies at her, planting wild, sloppy kisses all over her face.

"I'm warning you, Sherlock." She tries to mutter threateningly between kisses, as he gathers her body against him. He's desperate and frantic, shaking his head almost violently.

"Never. _Never, _Molly, I swear. I _promise." _His voice breaks again, as does her resolve, that she had spent the last three days building up. She wraps her arms around him, fingernails digging into his shoulders, as their anguished kisses become smoother, and they begin to find a rhythm together. Her cheeks are wet, but she isn't sure if she is the one crying or if he is; they are both too distressed to pull away long enough for her to figure it out. She almost sobs when he nips her bottom lips and slides his tongue into her mouth. She is too emotional, holding him to her with an unrelenting grip, scratching against his scalp, and pulling his hair hard enough that he groans.

It's only when Sherlock realises that they need air, that he puts some distance between them, pressing his forehead to her, his long hands still gripped tightly to her hips, hard enough that it briefly occurs to her that it will leave marks, and that she doesn't care, and that she wants him to ruin her (the smallest part that he hasn't already). There _are _tears in his eyes, but they match hers, so softly, she traces his face, his piercing eyes and high cheekbones. Sherlock takes the hand lingering on his lips, and places it on his neck, where she can feel his racing pulse.

"This is what you do to me." He says pleadingly, begging her to believe him. "This is what you've always done to me. I was too proud to admit it. I thought it made me better that I could resist the normalcy of relationships and... and _love." _He scrunches his nose, but it isn't malicious, just the foreign taste of the word, and the threatening tears in his eyes. She nods, and nods, pressing kisses to his closed eyes, and nose, up and down his jawline, because he groans in frustration, and returns to his mouth. She giggles at the pure, unadulterated joy surging through her, laughs through her tears.

"I love you too, Sherlock. _I love you. _I will never stop; _I cannot stop." _Her voice cracks, because those are words that have been bouncing around her head and heart for years. She ruffles his hair, pulling and twisting the strands between her fingers, as his face twists and something like a moan escapes him. When he reopens his eyes, there is something far more feral, and he rips the tie from her hair, and tangles his fist through the strands, burying his face in her neck, nipping and sucking his way down her throat, settling on her collarbone. She gasps and if possible tugs him closer, heat flushing through her.

Slowly, delicately, his spine ramrod straight as if he is waiting for Molly to push him away, Sherlock's fingertips dance just underneath her jumper at her bare hip. Gooseflesh erupts so quickly it is almost embarrassing, and she bites her lip to stifle whatever sound from slipping out. Sherlock leaves her neck, his eyes burning and dark.

"Off, Molly." He croaks, pulling at her jumper. For a moment, Molly wants to stop this - the rational side of her brain reminds her that they should calm down and talk before they jump into this. But then the second passes, her jumper is gone, and Molly is ripping at Sherlock's shirt, sending buttons flying. He pretends to be annoyed, nipping at her bottom lip like it is punishment, but she feels his eagerness and excitement, hot against her stomach.

As his mouth travels back down towards her breasts, Molly finds herself instinctively stiffening, awaiting a punishing word or dismissive comment. Sherlock notices, of course, glancing up at her, before shame steals his expression, and he's up to seal their lips together again. She can taste the apology, as he struggles with her jeans, and then his own.

"Sherlock? What's going on in there? I heard shouting. Do you have a _girl _in there? At this hour?" Molly pulls away from him with a mortified squeak, forgetting that the door is shut, that it is Sherlock's apartment, and that they have every right to be doing what they are doing.

_"Go away Mrs. Hudson!" _Sherlock shouts, grasping Molly by the hips, and pulling them flush against him. She smothers a moan in his collarbone, nibbling at his skin and marveling at how quickly it reddens, while pushing at his trousers impatiently. Faintly, she can hear Mrs. Hudson grumbling at his rudeness, as she patters back downstairs, but then Sherlock's teeth scrape across her earlobe, and she forgets to care.

When they have finally managed to divest each other of their outer clothes, Sherlock pulls away, his hands fluttering over her as he urges her up the stairs and into his bedroom, before disappearing. Molly blinks at the space where his flushed body used to occupy, her head trying to formulate something coherent, when he reappears, pushing her towards and onto the bed, a string on condoms in one hand.

"Bathroom." He explains against her lips. "John left a box - they're recent; it's fine."

"Do we need that many?" She exhales with half a chuckle, barely aware of anything other than his warmth and hardness against her smaller, softer frame. Sherlock rises again to push her farther onto the bed, his lips quirking into a smirk and raising an eyebrow.

"I should hope so."

Her bra is Sherlock's next barrier, which he attacks with a stubborn vigour, refusing to allow her the chance to help. His success is only half-deserved, because Molly is positive that he broke the clasps by getting it off, but her mild annoyance is appeased by his mouth covering her breast, swirling his tongue over the areola. His hands curl around her underwear, pulling them off slowly, when Molly tangles her legs with his, grabs his hip, and twists and pushes at him until she is straddling Sherlock's hips, and staring down at him. He gazes up at her with a soft expression in his eyes, of wonder and shock, feelings so unlike him that she flushes hard at being witness to them. His hair is mussed (because of _her), _his lips are puffy and red (also _her _doing), and his eyes are wild and dark, and she has to take a moment to _find air_.

Taking the chance Molly has spent a long time wanting, she places her hands on his flat stomach, sliding them up towards his chest. He shudders hard as she circles her thumbs over his nipples, his hands making an aborted attempt to stop her. But then he gives in, relaxes into her caresses as she lowers her mouth to his skin, intent on marking up the pale, delicate expanse of his chest. His hips are rocking into hers, his cotton briefs the only barrier between their skin, right where she needs him. In soft whispers that she thinks he might delete later, Sherlock begs, _pleads _for more, as she scratches a nail over his ribs.

As she finds a sensitive spot on his collarbone, Sherlock suddenly decides that her turn is up with a hard thrust against her, flipping them aggressively. Molly opens her eyes to see the crazed man, breathing hard above her, trailing his fingers up her inner thigh, dancing lightly across her centre. Molly moans and squirms, her hips bucking up to seek more pressure, but with a smirk, Sherlock's fingers move with her, granting only the lightest of touches.

Roughly, she pulls him back down to her by his hair, kissing him furiously. Sherlock groans into her lips, pressing hard on her clitoris, a long finger slipping into her. She can feel him against her leg, and his desperation in the way he moves against her. Her stomach tightens as his fingers skate and rub, harder and harder until white lights burst behind her closed eyes, heat flaring along every single nerve. She gasps and whimpers as she comes back down to earth, to Sherlock nuzzling her neck gently.

Molly pushes him away and grabs one of the condoms, ripping open the packing and sliding it over him with her mouth, delighting in the choked sounds that escape him, and the way his hand finds its way into her hair, massaging her head firmly. With a final, teasing lick, she allows him to pull her back up to her, ensconced in his arms. He kisses her once, twice, before guiding himself slowly in, pushing one leg up, and draping himself over Molly, quivering.

"Okay?" He bites out, tightly, his hips resting against her. She sobs out her approval, wrapping her legs around Sherlock's waist, bucking eagerly against him. He sighs in relief, one hand firmly on her leg as he begins to thrust, so that her clitoris meets his pelvis every time they join.

Sherlock hovers by her neck and cheek, meeting her wide eyes as he presses in, holding her so tightly, so urgently to him, that her heart twinges almost painfully. She cups his cheek with the hand that isn't digging her nails into his back, kissing him gently.

"I love you." She tells him earnestly, another orgasm beginning to crest. Sherlock's dark eyes clamp shut at the words, driving into her more fervently, his hips beginning to buck erratically. Molly rakes her nails down his spine as the orgasm hits her, tightening around Sherlock and jerking him into his own release.

Shuddering, and breathless, their minds still stuttering from their joint pleasure, Sherlock curls into Molly, placing small, swift kisses over her closed eyes, cheeks and lips. Trembling, he slips out of her, refusing to make any more space between their bodies. They lie like that until they can think again, and then even longer, as Molly listens to Sherlock's frantic whispers that come pouring out of him, hiding his face against her neck as the words she knows he tries to keep hidden and buried are marked onto her soul and mind.

Eventually, his murmurs slur, and fade into soft sighs, as his consciousness floats away. Molly holds him even tighter then, overwhelmed by the steps he has taken for her. She strokes her fingertips through his hair softly, passing time with thoughts that she sorely needs to sort out, until she joins him in slumber.

* * *

Molly wakes the next morning with light streaming through a dusty window, enveloped by the fully awake and fully inquisitive author of "The Science of Deduction," who is taking the opportunity to uncover any secrets she had managed to hide from him. He only glances at her sleepy smile, pointing out random marks and scars, demanding the full story to prove his deductions correct. She only chuckles and acquiesces, too relaxed to be put off by the strange bed-talk.

"You've lost a lot of weight." He murmurs suddenly, "Most likely a reaction to the emotional stress of the last few months... I don't like it. You look... _smaller_, and sadder." He pulls away and frowns at her. "I've read that people gain weight when they are in a relationship." He cocks his head, genuinely confused.

"I think happy is also a key word." She tells him softly, dragging a finger over his cheekbones.. His eyes grow wide again, and there is a small smile creeping up his face.

"Hungry?" He asks her brightly, his mad energy flowing back into him. She nods, suddenly aware of how ravenous she actually is. She can't remember the last time she ate properly. _Good God, _she thinks, _I'm already becoming Sherlock. _

"Takeaway, I'm assuming?" She asks drily, knowing full well the state of his kitchen. He flushes red, and she decides she likes the look. "Do you know a good place?" He nods his head vigorously, with a wide, innocent smile across his face. Clutching her hands, he pulls her further into his home, and into his life.

* * *

_**A/N: And this is the end! Thank you for indulging this clichéd piece - my soul needed it though, because I do not want to wait a year to see it Molly and Sherlock will progress at all. Thank you so much for all your kind and thoughtful reviews; it was wonderful to receive such a lovely response. I hope I ended it in a way that is satisfying! **_


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